The Hunter
“So what are you going to do, if not archery?” I asked again, sitting back, watching her through hooded eyes. I couldn’t believe I’d thought her to be anything less than gorgeous a few months ago. I was addicted to every curve of her face now.
“Promise not to laugh?” she asked.
I shook my head. Now it was her turn to laugh. I grinned.
“I want to study journalism.”
“Why?”
“Food critic.”
“Dope,” I said. We were pretending my family wasn’t on the brink of exploding. I appreciated that she went along with the charade.
“Right?” She bit her lip.
“Totally.”
“Hunter…” She trailed off, bringing her thumb to her mouth.
Uh-oh. There was concern in her voice. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Fuck if I remember.” I shrugged. “Four days ago?” That sounded about right. I did take catnaps, dozing off for ten minutes here and there.
She tapped her shoulder and said, “I promise to wake you up if you get a notification or a phone call.”
I stood and walked over to the crème and navy velvet sofa where she was seated. I pressed my head against her shoulder and closed my eyes. She kissed my hair.
It was the sweetest sleep I ever had.
There really was no reception on the godforsaken hill where the refinery was positioned. Right next to it were the living facilities of the workers, where Da and Cillian were staying to show solidarity and I guess to convey that they weren’t above slumming it with the blue-collar folks. (Spoiler alert: they were.)
Luckily, there was reception on the way to the facilities, so I had time to text Troy, Sam, Mom, and Aisling, letting them know we’d gotten here okay. Apparently, Syllie had been singing to the FBI and trying to pin everything on this Boris dude, since he thought they had more than they did.
He was going to rot in jail for a long-ass time.
But none of it would be worth it if I couldn’t get to Da and Cillian.
I bounced my leg in the back of the Range Rover that drove us to the refinery, looking out the window. Dawn gradually broke, leaving the frosty mountains aglow in pink and yellow.
When we finally pulled up at the apartment complex by the refinery, someone opened the door for us and announced that Da and Cillian were in Da’s room upstairs. I bolted after him while Sailor thanked our driver and asked to speak to the manager. I’d asked her to ask them to evacuate the refinery and surrounding area completely. Even if we weren’t there when it exploded, it was likely to reach the apartments and even farther down the street to the fisherman’s village.
I took the stairs to Athair’s room three at a time. When I reached his door, I swung it open, not bothering with a knock. I found Cillian and Da sitting at a corner desk of an extremely modest room that had a double bed covered with an orange, fuzzy quilt. The furniture looked clean but dated. They were both wide awake. Da was drinking scotch. Cillian sifted through a bunch of documents, looking like he gave very few fucks about my surprise entrance.
On the desk next to Cillian, his phone flashed with an incoming message.
Fucker had reception somehow.
Unbelievable.
Fresh anger ripped through me, tripling in quantity. They’d ghosted me.
I stormed inside, picked up his phone, and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and broke in HALF, which—I’d been pretty sure until today—was fucking impossible. Screw polo. I was obviously a wasted baseball hero.
“You want to tell me you haven’t had reception for twelve hours now? That you haven’t checked your emails and phones for that long? Bullshit! I tried to reach you dozens of times before dragging my sorry ass here. Why weren’t you picking up?” I leaned down, roaring. Flecks of my saliva flew onto their faces.
Cillian flipped a page in his document, refusing to acknowledge my presence in the room. Da took another measured sip from his drink.
Don’t kill them yourself. It’s what Syllie wants.
“You want to tell him or should I?” Cillian asked flatly, his eyes still on the goddamn document.
My father looked me straight in the eye, smirking. “You’ve passed the test, son.”
I had visions just then: visions of myself bashing my father’s head against the wall behind him.
Visions of wrestling Cillian to the floor and punching the smugness out of his fair features.
Stuff like that. But I just flashed my craziest, don’t-forget-to-smile grin, which must’ve looked a lot like the promising start of a psychotic episode. “I did? How. Fucking. Fun. Please enlighten me, Father Dearest.”
Cillian finally had the courtesy to dump the document he was reading on the desk. He glanced up at me. “When you came to us about Syllie, Athair didn’t want to believe it. To me, Syllie was always a loose cannon. I took it upon myself to assign Troy Brennan to the task of seeing what he was up to, what dish Sylvester was stirring for us in the disaster pot.” Cillian delivered his speech in a matter-of-fact way that implied he was reciting a cabbage soup recipe.
So that’s why the FBI came kicking down Syllie’s door. Troy already had sufficient legally-obtained evidence on him.
“We found out what he was up to with Boris Omelniski and his little friends in Maine, about the plan to blow the refinery with us in it. We made sure it was empty and all faulty machinery had been shut down. It was a money-sucker, but we couldn’t take any risks.”